Counting the Ways to the American Dream
by binnibeans
Summary: Alfred finds that Arthur's been keeping a little secret from him.


**A/N:** For **usxuk**'s Summer Camp event!

Day 17: Animals

_Whether wild or domesticated, animals are the theme here. ANYTHING involving animals is welcome, EXCEPT for Nekotalia (because there is a separate theme for that later on)._

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><p>Alfred F. Jones was a firefighter. He slid down poles, drove bright, red fire trucks, climbed ladders, and saved lives. When he wasn't doing <em>those<em> awesome, heroic things, he worked at the local humane society doing _other _awesome, heroic things. He was a well-liked man by many (disliked by some) but managed to, despite any previous insinuation, blend in. He kept fit, even though he snuck in Whoppers and Big Macs whenever he could, and jogged around his neighborhood every morning or evening he wasn't working.

His house was a humble one. Small; the yard was full of lush, green grass, rose bushes, and a white picket fence bordered it all with a cute little gate in the very front that opened to the neat little concrete path that led to the front door. An American flag flew high on the pole in the front yard, and the mailbox was a quaint little thing with his simple 3-digit address on it. A maple tree towered from behind the house, offering optimum shade in the summer. In his driveway sat his Ford F-250, and a mini-cooper.

It was, in simplest terms, the house seen by so many that sought the American Dream.

What made it better was that Alfred F. Jones did in fact have, in his opinion, the American Dream. In all of its incarnations: The house, a vehicle, an honorable job, a steady income, and money in his bank account. The only things missing were a dog and a cat, and two-and-a-half children. What made it even better than that, though, was that every day when he came home, he had someone there to greet him with a smile on his face.

On that day, he pulled up in his driveway, and yawned his way inside his house at nearly 2 in the morning. He carefully unlocked the door to the house, and tiptoed inside to kick off his shoes. After hanging up his old bomber jacket, he made his way through the living room and hallway, unbuttoning his uniform top before taking it and the t-shirt underneath off. He stopped at a particular door, opened it, and threw the two shirts down the stairs to the basement. The process ended when his pants, underwear, and socks were thrown down, and he then traversed to the bathroom for a quick shower.

In the shower, Alfred reflected on the day. It hadn't been the most … pleasant … of days as a firefighter. In his field, destruction had become something that just happened, and he'd been faced with the cold truth that one had to make the absolute best of it, no matter how hard it was. Injury and death were occurrences he had to try and stop, but he wasn't always successful. Though he knew better, and that it wasn't necessarily his fault, part of his did feel ashamed when those things happened. Thankfully the call from earlier didn't end quite so badly. A few of the apartments down the road from the station had caught fire (he wasn't sure how many times he had to remind people to not leave their kitchen appliances plugged in near the sink), and while one of the kids got a nasty burn on their arm, everyone was okay and went to the hospital just to do some double-checking. What had made it worth it, though, was saving one of the little girl's stuffed animals before the fire managed to spread too far and seeing the look of thanks and happiness in her eyes. (Of course, he made sure that this wasn't going to be a dangerous choice. Alfred was sentimental, but he wasn't stupid.) A few hours later, Alfred was on his way home and more than ready to hit the hay.

Stepping out of the shower, he let himself drip-dry as he brushed his teeth. He'd shave in the morning and put a little more care into how his hair looked when he woke up. For now, the towel-dried messy look was just fine. Glasses back in place, and with another yawn he pulled on just his pajama pants, the grungy-design of the American flag making it one of his favorite pairs. That and how soft they were, of course. Walking out of the bathroom his slipped into his, well, slippers, and padded his way carefully down the hall to his bedroom.

This was the difficult part. The bathroom and shower were close to the bedroom, yet the noise of the rushing water or flushing toilets never bothered any sleepers. What managed to alert those at rest was the slow squeaking of the door as it opened, and the _one board _that creaked only when the walker didn't want it to. With the first, almost ominous, creak, Alfred froze, snapping his gaze to the bed. There was no movement, and Alfred decided that moving quickly was key to this. A literal hop, skip, and jump later, Alfred had the door shut and was standing at the bed. Success rang in his ears and before he took his glasses off, he noticed a few things.

The first was that the bedside table on Arthur's side of the bed was still on. The second was that Arthur was still wearing his reading glasses, which meant that, combined with the third thing Alfred noticed (the book held open loosely in Arthur's hand), Arthur had fallen asleep reading, probably waiting up for Alfred. Touched, and with a grin, Alfred walked to the other side to coax the book from Arthur's hands (he made sure to bookmark the page) and take his glasses off. Both set to the side, Alfred left a small kiss in Arthur's hair, then turned the light off before carefully making his way back. (It was admittedly a slow process, but who knew then the bed would stick a leg out and stub his toe?) His own glasses now put away, Alfred pulled back his covers, slid into the bed, and wriggled closer to the center to grab hold of his fiancé and pull him close.

Alfred breathed in the scent of Arthur's hair. It smelled just faintly of tea and earth—he'd probably been working on the roses all day—with a slight hint of cinnamon. The latter meant that he'd either tried baking again, or bought himself a new bottle of shampoo. He hoped it was shampoo. He'd warned Arthur that if his house caught fire and burned to the ground, his reputation as a fireman would be ruined. What Alfred had seen as a handy piece of information to have, Arthur had seen as a deep, grievous insult, "Not only to your lack of faith in my cooking ability, but you seem much more concerned for the welfare of the house than you do me!" Despite Alfred's insistence that, "I know you're smart enough to get out of the house so you'd be all right, but it doesn't mean I wouldn't worry about you!" the ordeal earned him three nights on the couch, and Arthur didn't even forgive him for 3 days after he was allowed back in bed. …So, Alfred hoped to convince himself as he slept that it was simply cinnamon-scented shampoo.

He'd finally willed himself to relax enough to fall asleep when Arthur shifted, turned in Alfred's arms, and hid his face in Alfred's chest. "You're home," he said groggily. Alfred grinned, nodding as best he could and holding Arthur closer. The days Alfred actually had a call were the days he found himself more and more grateful for having Arthur. They fought from time to time, and maybe they had little annoying quirks that annoyed the other, but he knew of no one he'd rather spend his life with, and risk his life for.

"Finally, huh?"

"I heard the sirens going off. I was going to wait up for you, but I suppose I fell asleep."

"Out cold," Alfred commented fondly.

Arthur yawned. "What time is it?"

"Probably almost two-thirty." Alfred yawned, as well. Damn; they were more contagious than he'd previously believed…. "I gotta get up at nine, tomorrow."

Arthur moved a little more vigorously, stretching and turning. In what light filtered through the window, Alfred watched as Arthur's skin pulled taut over his Adam's apple, which was almost gracefully defined in the resulting shadows. It seemed that Arthur had succeeded in whatever he was doing for those few moments, and then snuggled more soundly against Alfred.

"The alarm is set for eight-thirty," he said, clinging.

Alfred groaned. "But I said niiiiine…!"

"I know. Just think of it like sleeping in for half an hour."

Alfred's cheeks puffed out as he felt Arthur grin against him. "It would be better without the alarm going off."

Arthur lightly hit his hand against Alfred's chest. "You'll sleep through it, anyways; I don't know what you're complaining about—"

The end of Arthur's sentence was interrupted by a crash of thunder shook the house. The windows rattled and Arthur clung just a little tighter to Alfred, unknowingly. Alfred didn't recall hearing about a thunderstorm in any forecasts, but…. Weather was weather, he supposed. He liked them, anyway.

What Alfred had not been prepared for was the sudden sound of … whining. At first he thought perhaps Arthur had fallen asleep already and was dreaming about something or other, but that pitch did not come from a human. Arthur seemed to freeze in Alfred's arms as Alfred fixed his eyebrows to a most perplexed expression, then his eyes widened when he heard a bark. A high-pitched bark, right before another round of thunder. He heard something come running and he went to sit up, but Arthur stopped him, trying to kiss him to get his attention.

It worked, for a solid five seconds. A good, solid five seconds that could have easily continued if not for the sudden addition to the bed. The sudden, little, furry addition whose claws were unintentionally digging into his arm. Shock and surprise everywhere on Alfred's face, he looked at the newcomer, then at Arthur, then back to the newcomer: A golden retriever puppy, now pacing about in circles on the bed, in the small space between Alfred and Arthur. Alfred watched for several moments as the puppy finally found a niche, only to jump up and repeat the process every time thunder sounded.

"Hey, Arthur."

The other sounded a little timid—a tone he hardly ever used, especially against Alfred. "Y-yes, Alfred…?"

Alfred thought for a moment of how to word his question, but there really was no other way. "What's a dog doing in our bed?"

"Please, don't make him leave!" Arthur burst out, grabbing hold of the puppy and scratching behind its ears. "Your shelter started a foster program, and they called earlier, wondering if we'd be up to it. I figured that I'm home almost all day during the summer, so it wouldn't be too much of an issue, but if it is then we can withdraw from the program, but, please…! Consider it?"

It took a moment for Alfred to process all of that correctly, then fixed Arthur with a confused stare. How was he supposed to answer? More thunder hit, and the puppy wriggled around in Arthur's arms. Alfred watched it for a moment. He'd never at all thought of kicking the puppy out, if that was what Arthur was afraid of. He'd just been surprised, was all.

Alfred grinned, reaching over to join Arthur in trying to sooth it. "I don't care," he said. "What's his name?"

"Er…. Haven't thought of one just yet, actually."

"Did he just get in, then? To the shelter, I mean."

Arthur nodded, his ministrations on the dog slowing down. "They said they found him two days ago, when I went to pick him up. He's clean, though, so that's good." Arthur sat properly, handing the dog over to Alfred. The dog was trembling in fear from the thunderstorm, but soon enough it had fallen asleep against Alfred's chest. Alfred grinned, looking as best he could about the room for the puppy to sleep. There was a pile of not-quite-dirty-but-not-quite-clean laundry, and there was a beanbag where Alfred sat to play his video games when not worrying about work. The beanbag was decidedly off-limits to any creature with fangs or claws, and Arthur would have a heart attack if—

"Just on the small bit of the laundry, there. I'm washing them tomorrow, anyways. I'll get him a bed when I'm out."

Or Alfred might be the one having the heart attack. He was still a little undecided, really. He let a second or two pass by for contemplation's sake, but he shrugged, careful in his movements so that he didn't startle the puppy as the storm died down. It actually looked rather … peaceful amongst the clothing. It almost made Alfred want to jump in and join, but he knew better, and besides: Arthur was waiting for him.

Double-checking the puppy, Alfred bounced back to his bed, jumping under the covers. It was nearly three, now; he really needed to get some sleep. In bed, snuggled up under the covers, Alfred held on dearly to Arthur, as if darling him to look down. Their earlier position resumed, only just this time in reverse. "I can't think of a name," he said.

Arthur shrugged. "Neither can I," he said.

Alfred lay there, listening as Arthur fell asleep. He had to grin, despite his fatigue.

One down on the American Dream path, several more to go.

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><p>END<p> 


End file.
